The room felt a little too quiet tonight. The soft hum of the fan did little to fill the space left behind by Chooch — her best friend, her comfort, her constant. For so long, they were inseparable. She used to curl up on top of him, burying herself in his soft fur, letting his warmth lull her into sleep. They had a rhythm. Now that rhythm is gone.
She’s been wandering more lately, searching the corners of the room, sniffing at blankets, lying down and then getting up again. I can tell she’s not quite sure what to do with herself. Grief doesn’t always look the same, even in animals. Sometimes it’s in the silence, the hesitation, the way she stares at the door a little too long, hoping he might walk through it again.
So tonight, I’m giving her the plushie.
It’s not the same — I know that. It won’t move, it won’t sigh, and it won’t purr the way Chooch did. But it’s soft. It’s warm from the dryer. And maybe, just maybe, it will bring her some small comfort. She might not be able to lay on top of it the way she did with him, her tiny paws kneading his back like she was making bread. But she’ll have something to cuddle. Something to press her cheek against. Something to remind her that she’s still safe, still loved.
I placed it gently beside her bed, and she sniffed it cautiously. Then, to my surprise, she laid down next to it. She didn’t curl up right away. She just rested her head on it and blinked up at me with those soft, searching eyes. It broke my heart and mended it at the same time.
I know healing takes time — for her and for me. The plushie is just a small step, a little symbol of comfort in a world that changed too suddenly. But maybe it’s enough for now. Maybe having something, even if it’s not someone, is enough to help her sleep a little more peacefully tonight.
And that’s all I want — for her to feel just a little less alone.
